


the dinner and diatribes one.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: dinner and diatribes themed shenanigans.role-reversal. and then, payback. || Andrew just wants to go home, and he's willing to play a little dirty to get his way. But what happens when the tables are turned? And how far can you take it before someone, or you both, give in?
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> it’s important to me that you know I hate *Friends*. I’m just lazy about titles.
> 
> (as-per, very lightly proofed, because otherwise I’d never actually put anything out -- I’d just hammer at it until there was nothing left. also, if you’ve any suggestions or requests, inbox me or leave a comment.)

\\\

He had to have known. He couldn’t not have sensed by now that you were burning up and so was your gaze honed in on the side of his handsome, innocent-looking face. 

He’d been tracking lazy lines over the inside of your thigh, now, for the past twenty minutes. You were quite sure it was the most passive — but no less maddening — form of delicious punishment he could come up with for what had happened, before. That being, him telling you quietly that he’d like, if you’d like too, to leave. Maybe. Please.

You’d shot him a sorry smile and cupped his cheek and pressed a chaste kiss to the scruff of his jaw before murmuring a genuine apology and something about how you had to stick it out to the toasts, and then you could both beg off. You’d even told him, cheekily, that you’d make it up to him later. Come to think of it, that might have been the problem.

You’d planted the seed, the thought, the bait. And now he was making sure you didn’t forget it. 

You, for your part, didn’t have a plan, no counter. You could barely manage a straight thought at this point. Barely, and then his fingertips trailed higher, still.

You froze, the wine in your glass ebbing against your lips, a blush to match rising on your cheeks. And then he smiled.

He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid passing his own lips with none of your fear of choking on it, and he grinned. To himself, it looked like. And he was. But you knew just as well that he was as much smiling at you, and about the affect he could see he was having on you.

You knew you could pass the rosy cheeks off as being from the booze; a wine flush. And he knew that no one but you could tell what he was doing — not with you leaning into his own overheated body like you were, and not with your silky skirt and the top of the table shielding his ministrations from roving eyes. And so when he looked at you and cocked his eyebrow, cheeky and overly pleased with himself, you both knew that anyone looking your way would think it was just a flirty glance between lovers. And it was. But it was a promise, too. 

As the evening chatter floated down to your end of the table, his tracings slowed. He kept his hand where it was — planted firmly on the top of your thigh, warm between your loosely crossed legs — but gave you a breather as he took up talk with a couple you barely knew who were sat across the wide hardwood top. 

Their faces — and yours, and his — were cast in flickering light from the dwindling candles, and obscured in strange parts by the overloaded centrepieces, dripping as they were with wildflowers and twigs and pretentiousness. He knew this, too — knew they couldn’t see all of you. He was easier to spy, his face peeking out just over the top of the shrunken forest that ran down the middle of the table. But you? You were hidden, your presence made up of genial murmured encouragements and the hint of your wavering smile through the gaps between the branches.

When he grew bored with the conversation, droning on as it was, you knew you were in trouble. He made a face across the table, endearing and puppy dog-like, innocent as could be, immediately ingratiating himself to anyone he shot it in the direction of — except for you. Because you knew better. You still melted, of course, but you could read the fire behind his eyes.

His long fingers squeezed again at your thigh and then nudged gently your one leg from atop the other. You took a beat, wondering if there was anything you could do to put him off. But there wasn’t, not anything that you could think of. And so you gave in.

He glanced hotly over at you, checking in even in this moment of heady impulse. You were in it now; wanting, despite yourself. 

You rose an eyebrow at him and took a sip of your wine, a coy smile blooming over your blushing face. He returned your flushed expression, something gleefully mischievous but awed in love, about it. And so then you settled, into the moment and him, both, tucking your body back into his side. 

The first brush of his touch between your thighs was tentative, testing. He glanced down at you — you, with your wine glass held shakily in front of your bitten-on lips; you, who was fixated on the lone, wilted poppy perched just beyond your face, and on keeping your breathing steady.

He stroked again, this time slipping beyond the scrap of lace in his way.

You, all the parts of you above the table top, anyway, barely reacted. But all the parts of you revealed to him melted under his deft touch. He was tracing you lazily, enjoying keeping you at a simmer beside him, around him, pressed up against him. 

You set your glass shakily back down, worried you might drop it if you held on to it much longer, and then turned your flushing face away from the flowers and into the crook of his shoulder. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, his sweet breath cool against your forehead. To prying eyes, it looked like you were whispering sweet nothings, your lips to the shell of his ear. And you were whispering, but it wasn’t nothing, and it was less than sweet.

‘Take me home, Andy. Now. Let’s go home.’

//


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh, tenses.

\\\

You knew he wanted to leave. But you also knew that he wasn’t going to say as much. Not to you, anyway. Not after the last time.

Unlike the last time, however, this time, you had a plan. And a wicked one, at that.

The party, this one, was a love-in. A room filled with slightly tipsy bodies, all gleeful and contagious with happiness. You’d been here, in this room — decorated like some kind of wintery wonderland of evergreens with bright pops of berries, like natures confetti — since the sun had gone down. You’d been meandering around the room both together and apart, reeling back in every so often for a quick touch, some soothing, and a smile or a giggle. 

He’d been caught up with some man you didn’t know the last time you passed him. You were on your way to the bar, and you’d made a face on your way by — a “do you want anything?” kind of look. He’d made one back — a polite “yes, a lot more whiskey, please” with a tip of his empty glass — and then another when his chatty companion had looked away from him and towards you with a jaunty grin. The second look was less polite; still ridiculously sweet, but with more waggling eyebrows. And when you smiled back at him, a chuckle escaping your lips as you made it to the bar, he looked like he’d won some kind of prize just for making you laugh. 

By the time you made your way back to him, a glass in each hand bobbing with honeyed liquor, you knew full well that you were sweeping in and saving him from what looked to be an absolutely torturous exchange. He was too kind to try and excuse himself, and so you’d been watching him fidget uncomfortably for the past fifteen minutes at the hands (and mouth) of the only guy at the party (there was always one) who wanted to talk about the weather, politics, religion and current affairs, seemingly all in tandem. 

“Hey, honey.”

“Oh!” You’d scarcely seen him look quite so relieved at the mere sight of you. “Hi,” You slipped an arm loosely around his waist and he tucked you under his, draping it across your shoulders in a subtle attempt to keep you by his side. Not that you had plans of leaving him to his own devices again, anytime soon. 

“Mind if I steal him away?” The chatty man, to his credit, gave you a warm smile in return and then swiftly tottered off in search of his next victim. 

You glanced skywards, catching his green-eyed gaze with yours and tossed him a mischievous grin. “My hero.” He mumbled into your hair, his fingertips scrabbling over your chilly arm as you manoeuvred you both towards one of the many cluttered dining tables dotted around the place. 

The idea, as they had explained it long-windedly, earlier, was that everyone would mill about and chat, and then, when the mood struck, would settle down at their chosen (and whimsically unassigned) seating. It was about ten minutes after that orientation that Andrew — and you as well, in honesty — had all but checked out. 

You chose a far off table tucked away in a shadowy corner, unoccupied and mostly out of the way of the din of the party. 

“You want my jacket?” He glanced up at you with wide, earnest eyes as he settled into his seat, keeping his arm raised and waiting for you to tuck yourself in beside him. The sheer sweetness of it, of him — it was almost enough to make you want to walk back your plan. Almost. 

“No, I’m okay.” You leaned down to press lazy kiss to his pink lips, tucking one of his errant curls behind his ear before you took your seat. “Thanks, though.”

He smiled, and you grinned back, and then you settled into the quiet together; into the strange little pocket of peace you’d managed to steal in the otherwise bustling room.

You wriggled in your spot beside him, moving to rest your head on his shoulder and letting your arm drop haphazardly onto his long leg. When you hooked your own leg over his, stretched out beside you and low enough for you to be able to reach, you felt him glance downward, his beard catching in your hair. 

His eyes soon turned back up, though, his own hand rubbing gently back and forth across your bare back. 

To anyone peeking over, you expected you looked rather like a couple taking a quiet moment to themselves, huddled together in the shadows and indulging in a spell of togetherness where no one could really get at them. And in a way, it was exactly that. That was part of the plan, after all. 

You kept your eyes trained on the gathering, your face still but for the cheeky smile dancing behind your eyes, while beside you, he was just as still, but not quite so relaxed. Not since you’d started toying gently with the in-seam of his trousers. 

Once you’d tracked high enough up his thigh to draw out a tiny gasp from his pouting lips, you paused, and turned to face him. There was a burst of laughter from the other side of the room — over there, in the brightness — and so you smiled, but not at that. Not at the sounds of cheery revelry. You were smiling just for him, and to yourself, as you dragged your dancing fingertips higher and higher, watching as his eyes, looking at you staring at him, glazed over and clouded with lust. 

He wanted to say something, you could tell. There were words right there, on the tip of his wet pink tongue, but all he could manage was a breathy groan and a darkening stare.

“Hi.” You gazed back at him with wide, warm eyes. He couldn’t speak, not while you were running your fingertip up the line of his fly, and so he cleared his throat and took a shaky breath and a sip of his whiskey. 

“Hi…” He managed finally, his lips pressed hotly to the juncture of your jaw, his breath hot against your neck. You smiled again and he laughed, and then moaned, as you let your whole hand rest along the hot, hard line of him. 

You turned back into him, letting him drag his lips against yours, and swallowed down the frustrated groan he breathed into your mouth as you gave him one more lazy squeeze. “Ready to go?”

He didn’t open his eyes at your hushed words, not right away. Instead, he brushed his nose along the line of your neck — flushed just like the bloom of pink across his cheeks — and then pressed a wet kiss to your collarbone before muttering, dazed, “Fuck, yes. Please, yes.”

//


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it has been some time since I tried my hand at anything even vaguely smutty. Is this smut? I dunno. It’s not-not smut anyway, that’s for sure.)

\\\

He didn’t look stubborn necessarily, but he could be. Conversely, you looked very stubborn, and that’s because you were. It was a combination that had proven dangerous on occasion — like it was tonight. 

It wasn’t, you don’t think, meant to have turned into a ‘do, this, here, tonight. Not unless it was, and he knew but had just forgotten to mention it to you. Or maybe it was, and he knew as much and it was all just a part of his plan. You weren’t sure. In any case, you had been here since early evening, and it was now creeping towards midnight, and you’d been ready to race home since approximately ten minutes into your first drink when he’d cornered you in the kitchen, alone, and kissed the living daylights out of you before slinking off with a devilish smile plastered across his sweet face, back to the party and away from you. You, brain-melted and body alight, stunned and yearning.

You couldn’t say how committed he was to the idea of getting you home, but what you did know was that if he did — want to get you home as badly as you did him, that it — it probably took seed somewhere around the time you perched yourself beside him on the arm of the couch and began running your fingernails through his hair and down his neck, watching in revengeful delight as his skin broke out in goosebumps.

You’d been orbiting one another ever since, teasing and baiting, torturing one another lovingly. 

He’d snuck up behind you at one stage while you were chatting away and pulled you back against him, lining your body up with his and resting his chin on the top of your head. Then, you’d done the same back to him a little while later, casually tucking your hand into the back pocket of his jeans while he was rambling happily, and then distractedly, about something or other.

It had all escalated after the second glass of wine — him with his fingertips dancing under the hem of your jumper, you with your lips hot against the shell of his ear, whispering words meant for him and him alone. 

Dinner was when the spark flared, though. There was something dangerously reminiscent about being so flustered, mutually this time, and tucked together sat at one end of the long and crowded table. His hand squeezed at your thigh and yours draped over his lap, his lips ghosting over your shoulder every now and again, and yours pressed to his knuckles on his hand which you held above the top of the table. 

He excused himself after dinner was done, the table now littered with empty plates and half-drained glasses, and you watched him go, waited, and then followed. 

You cornered him in the long hallway on his way back, steering him into the wall and claiming his lips. You wound your arms around his neck, bringing him down to you and giving yourself to him. His hands settled low on your hips, anchoring you and lifting you up so that all of you was resting against all of him and only the tips of your toes remained on the ground. 

You broke away with a smile and gleamed at the frustrated little groan that escaped his lips as you extracted yourself from his steady arms. And then you left him, just like that — wide eyed and hot-blooded — in the hall, making your way back to the din and leaving him to catch his breath.

He got you back, though. It was the last straw before you snuck away and hurried home. He snuck up behind you again, this time while you were washing the dishes, his hands dragging wantonly down your sides, his thumbs tracing the underside of your bra, then down some more, his palms splayed wide and warm and low on your stomach.

“Andrew…” You warned as his touch strayed lower still, his hold on you settling over the jut of your hips.

“Let’s go.”

And that was all you needed. You disappeared in a plume of suds and a blur of coats, your breathless selves ducking out the back door and into the night, towards the car and in a rush to get home. 

The dim little cavern of the car filled with giggles and gasps, with kisses at stops lights and touches, too. It all spilled out into the drive when you arrived home, finally, the two of you dashing out of the car and tangling together there, under the winking light of the moon.

You scurried as quickly as you could to the door, tumbling clumsily against it in a hurried quest for keys. 

Clothes began disappearing from bodies just as soon as the door fell shut behind you, flung away between breathless kisses, open-mouthed and moaning, whispers escaping in the moments between. You tripped together up the stairs, his belt left somewhere near the landing and your camisole lost over the railing, and then spilled into the familiar dim solace of your bedroom, the space filling with the sounds of ragged breath and lips smacking against skin. 

He gathered you against him then, lifting you up as you wrapped yourself around him, and made his way to the bed, dropping onto the plush blankets and bringing you down on top of him, all over him, surrounding and intoxicating him. 

It was all skin and lips and damp breath, all trembling touches and half-lidded eyes. It was sweet nothings and gentle nips and stuttering hips. 

Hands scrabbled at the left behind, in-the-way fabric scraps as your bodies kept falling together, clambering upwards in the bed, towards pillows and nightstands and bed railings to grab. 

Then he kissed you. Held your dewy, flushed face in his quavering hands, and drank you in. And even then, even still, cradled as he was in your arms and between your thighs, he paused, and looked — looked to you for a surety. 

You breathed out a giggle and nodded and stole a kiss for yourself, raking your hands through his hair, down his back, and over the line of hips, laughing again as he shuddered against you, his face tucking into the nape of your neck. 

A beat, a breath, a chance at catching it before you both gave in to what had begun to feel like a lifetime of breathlessness, and then you were lost. 

It was all him, everywhere, and all at once. It was his stilted breath in your mouth and his fingertips grasping desperately at your skin. It was his heart thundering in his chest, pressed against yours. It was the feel of him and you together, hot and delicious. It was the stretch of him, the too much not enough of him. His loving, consuming you. 

He rolled his hips against yours, testing himself, his body as drunk on you as yours was on him. He ebbed away and then sank home, a thrumming moan skittering across your steamy skin as he paused again, resting within you while he tried again to catch his breath.

You were unmoving, wrapped up in each other and hidden from the world behind veils of tangled hair and loving whispers, trembling legs, and hips, pressed together and rolling gently, wanting, but desperate to hold on to this moment for just a bit longer.

Once the tide broke, it was all a heady blur. It was hot breath and hungry moans, open-mouthed kisses landing wherever and everywhere. It was the sounds of you, together, and nothing else, echoing. It was scrambling hands and wide eyes, half-questions and soft cries. It was everything, all at once, as you tumbled one after the other over the precipice. 

//


End file.
